Emma Campion - A Triple Knot (8 page)

J
oan woke to the sound of women whispering, only Bella still curled up beside her. Pulling back the curtains, she discovered Sandrine, Felice, Mary, Lady Lucienne, and two of the queen’s lady’s maids sorting through her clothes.

“What are you doing?”

Mary dropped the gown she was holding up for one of the ladies. “My lady, they said the queen—”

“Her Grace says that, as none of these fit properly, we are to use the fabrics to create new gowns.” Lucienne held up the deep blue silk and the rose taffeta to suggest the blending of the two—the rose as the bodice and sleeves, the blue as the skirt. “We’re deciding what we can use, and then Lady Marguerite and Lord Henri are escorting us to the market to shop for decorations. We shall have such fun!”

Felice came over to plump up the pillows behind Joan and Bella, who sat up rubbing her eyes.

“You might have asked before you began,” Joan said.

Bella elbowed her. “Why so glum? You were angry with Countess Margaret for refusing to make you new gowns. Now you’ll have them.”

Maybe Bella was right. Joan loved how she felt in the gown made from Lucienne’s, and this one would not smell of roses
and spice. Why would she resist such a gift? “I want the bodice fitted all the way to my hips.”

Lucienne beamed. “Of course!”

The duke’s children arrived with such an escort of guards that their company crowded the townsfolk out of the market as it entered and spread out among the stalls. The hawkers grew quiet, though not the musicians and performers, who followed in their wake. Joan would ever think of the Antwerp market filled with music and song, alive with puppet shows, jugglers, dancing bears, and performing monkeys. The merchants spread their wares before them, silks, velvets, the finest wools, a rainbow of gorgeous fabrics, ribbons, leathers soft and supple—some in strips to use for lacing, jewels, buttons, buckles. Lucienne and Felice took charge, draping the soft fabrics around Joan’s shoulders, discussing colors, texture, carefully cool and straight-faced to give them the upper hand in bargaining with the merchants. Marguerite guided them to the stalls of the cloth merchants and jewelers her father favored, but that did not mean they would give the English visitors a fair price, nor did Lucienne and Felice expect it. That was part of the game for them, and they excelled at it: Lucienne charming the merchants, flattering them into competition; Felice standing firm, pointing out flaws, brighter colors in neighboring stalls, the telltale whiff of mold suggesting damp warehouses.

Their hosts made purchases as well. Marguerite presented Joan and Bella with strings of tiny silk flowers like the ones that bordered her surcoat; Henri gave each a marvelous plum pastry, his favorite. Joan and Bella fingered ribbons and buttons, jeweled mirrors and combs, even saddles and harnesses.

Joan was particularly taken with the harnesses at one stall, decorated with hundreds of tiny silver bells. With one in each hand, she was shaking them, comparing their tones, when she saw Bella’s eyes go wide at something behind her.

“The higher pitch would startle most palfreys,” said the Sire d’Albret as Joan turned to him. He took the hand in which she held the harness with the lower pitch. “If you would permit me, Lady Joan, I would make you a gift of this one in atonement for my behavior yesterday. I was jealous. You had eyes only for Lord Henri.”

His banter unsettled Joan. “Did I?”

“Jealous of my brother?” Marguerite laughed. “You do so enjoy playing the heartsick knight, my lord. But have a care, you’ll turn Henri’s head. And you’re confusing Lady Joan. She isn’t accustomed to your teasing.”

So it meant nothing. Now Joan felt foolish. Covering her embarrassment, she tried some banter. “Lord Henri is a gracious host and has the finest mews and a deep knowledge of falconry. I
am
quite taken with him.”

Henri blushed, and so did Joan, as Lord Bernardo kissed her hand, the harness bells jingling merrily, his eyes crinkling in pleasure. She wished he would not do that. Even though she knew now that he was teasing, he had a disturbing effect on her. She forced a smile. “My lord, I accept your apology and your gift.”

He bowed to her and snapped his fingers for his man to make the purchase, then proffered his arm to escort her back to Lucienne and Felice, who were arranging for the delivery of their purchases. Lord Bernardo—
do call me that, little one, it is my name
—left them at the end of the square, professing to remember the business that seeing her had quite put out of his head. She laughed at his exaggeration, blushed at yet another kiss of her hand, and tripped off with the others in such good humor that she teased Lord Henri about the smear of plum on his cheek and boldly asked if she might go hawking with him on the morrow.

The sun was low in the sky when they returned to the abbey,
but the air was still mild. As Henri and Marguerite were saying their farewells, a page appeared at Joan’s elbow. Queen Philippa awaited her in the garden.

“Come, Joan, walk with me awhile.” They strolled along the paths, Philippa pointing out to Joan the plants that were familiar from her childhood, sharing some fond memories of a gardener who had befriended her. But at last Philippa sank down on a bench, gesturing for Joan to stand before her so they were eye to eye. “I have heard about Bernardo Ezi’s behavior at the duke’s hall. Earl William and Lady Clare called it most inappropriate. Did he frighten you, Joan?”

“A little, Your Grace, and I was grateful knowing the earl watched out for me. But Lord Bernardo made his apologies today, buying me a beautiful harness with silver bells as a token of his respect.”

“Lord Bernardo was at the market? Did you accept his gift?”

“I did, Your Grace. Lady Marguerite seemed to think I should.”

“And you trust her judgment?”

“She and Henri laughed as if he teases them all the time. I thought perhaps I had misunderstood. Was it wrong? Should I have refused him?”

“No.” The queen drew out the syllable, as if testing it, and then, more firmly, repeated it. “No. It was a graceful gesture on his part. I am glad of it.” But she did not look so. She seemed uneasy, as if someone were not playing the game as expected. “He behaved appropriately?”

“No one protested when he twice kissed my hand.”

The queen made a sound low in her throat. “How many times did he kiss Lady Marguerite’s hand?”

Joan closed her eyes, retracing Albret’s movements. “I’d not thought of that. He kept his distance from her, Your Grace.”

The queen cocked an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Shall I return his gift?”

“Return it? No, child.” Philippa took Joan’s hands and looked into her eyes, not unkindly. “I heard that Lady Lucienne gave you an unpleasant surprise this morning. She should have consulted with you before touching your gowns, and I have told her so in no uncertain terms. But she meant well, and I do hope you will enjoy the new gowns.” Her face had brightened. “You are maturing into a young woman of much grace earlier than either your mother or I anticipated. Edward will not have you looking like a poor cousin.”

“I am grateful, Your Grace. Truly.” Joan returned the queen’s smile. “Would you like to see the pretty silk flower borders Lady Marguerite bought Bella and me?”

“I should indeed. Come. Let us go within.”

As they retraced their steps to the guesthouse, Philippa interrupted Joan’s account of the day with questions about the Brabant children and Albret. Were the children and the Gascon close? Intimate? Joan found the inquiry assuring. Philippa must have been concerned about Albret’s behavior. She meant to watch over Joan.

F
OR A FORTNIGHT
J
OAN ENCOUNTERED
L
ORD
B
ERNARDO ALMOST
daily. She observed Lady Marguerite dancing with him, blushing, teasing, approaching, retreating. Never did he touch her other than to take her hand in a dance or to assist her in some way. In all things quite chaste. Joan held back, allowing Bella and Marguerite to bask in his teasing attention, but he merely grew bolder, brushing her neck with his hand as he assisted her with a cloak, cupping his hands round hers when she passed something at the table, trailing his hand along her shoulders when moving past her seat. He was adept at this game, apparently convincing the king and queen that he was filling her head with stories of Gascony to interest her in his son. Or so said Lucienne. But to Joan he never mentioned Arnaud. What was his
game? Joan complained to the queen, who suggested that she was misinterpreting his courtesy. But she promised to speak with him.

And all the while Joan watched Lucienne and Thomas, hating how easy they were together. But he had not forgotten her. Thrice Joan stole out to the garden in the early morning, hoping to see Sir Thomas, and twice she found him there, seemingly waiting for her on the bench they had shared that first morning, with a treat from the kitchen and weak cider or ale. He made her feel welcomed, cared for.

Both times she intended to ask him how to persuade Albret to keep his hands to himself. But both times she managed only to sit quietly beside him, resenting the scent that clung to him—roses and spice, Lucienne’s scent. It confused her feelings for him, and she found herself embarrassed about burdening him with her problems, fearful lest she sound childish. Each time she regretted her hesitation. He meant to be her friend. Why else wait there, with food? Next time she would trust him.

T
HOMAS HAD ALMOST GIVEN UP WHEN
L
ADY
J
OAN RAN OUT INTO
the kitchen garden holding a short cloak over her head as a shield from the soft summer rain. With five days or so before he departed on a mission, he was anxious to talk to her about Lord Bernardo. Warn her.

“
Benedicite
, Lady Joan.”

“Good morning, Sir Thomas. What have you there?”

“Still warm bread and soft cheese.”

She inhaled deeply before spreading some of the cheese on a chunk of the bread and biting into it with relish. She laughed as she brushed the crumbs away and sipped some weak cider. “You must think me a savage, but I’ve not eaten since before nones yesterday.”

“Savage? Never.”

“I am glad to find you here again. I need your advice.”

“Is this about the Sire d’Albret?”

She nodded as she chewed, then swallowed more cider. “Her Grace believes he woos me for his son. But he never speaks of him. In truth, he behaves as if—” She suddenly dropped her gaze. “You carry Lady Lucienne’s scent, as you do whenever I find you here at this time.”

He’d not thought of that. “What has that to do—”

“There is a connection. I pray you, be patient.” She crooked one leg over the bench, carefully draping her skirts, so that she might look at him directly. “You are lovers, I know. Do you want to marry her?”

“She has a husband.”

“If she were not married?” Her eyes demanded the truth.

He shook his head, as if that were less of a betrayal than the word “no.”

“You would shun Lucienne because she has let other men make love to her?”

He bowed his head. “A man wants to trust that his children are his. I suppose that makes me a hypocrite.”

“You and most men at court, I expect, including the Sire d’Albret. Why, then, if he means me for his son and heir, would he behave as if he has no respect for my honor, kissing my hand repeatedly, touching my neck, cupping my hand in his when he passes me something at the table?”

Thomas sat up straighter to ease the clench of his stomach. “The queen’s ladies permit this?”

“They do.”

He cursed beneath his breath. “Lady Lucienne promised to watch him more closely, to keep you safe. Has she not escorted you on these occasions?”

“She has, but—” Joan frowned. “You discussed this with her?”

He felt himself falling into trap after trap under the girl’s
close scrutiny. “I did not like how he behaved the day you were introduced.”

A little smile, a blush.

“I will ask Lucienne to mention this to Her Grace.”

“I have told Her Grace of his behavior,” Joan said. “She promised to speak with him, but nothing has changed. I think she fears he will lose interest in the alliance. She still believes that’s his intention.”

Thomas bit back a second curse. “I will talk to Lucienne again. And, if you wish, I will instruct the men who stay behind when we ride south that they should keep their eyes on Albret when he is near you.”

“You would do this for me? Even after I asked you about Lucienne?”

“Even so.”

She leaned close, her breath sweet with cider, and pecked his cheek. “My champion. I will pray for you all the while you are away.” She unwound her legs and rose.

Without thinking, he caught her hand. “You know where to knee him if need be?”

Her eyes widened as she blushed. “I do.” She pressed his hand to her cheek. “You are my perfect knight.”

And she was gone, leaving him with an unquiet heart. He cared for her far too much, this royal child.

H
OW BOLD SHE HAD BEEN
! J
OAN
’
S HEART POUNDED AS SHE RUSHED
away from Thomas. He’d promised to protect her, and he’d held her hand!

But he’d not kissed her. Had she been Lucienne …

She slowed down as she reached the hall. Thomas and Lucienne had
discussed
her. Could Lucienne be right, that Joan reminded Thomas of his sisters? Was his attention no more than that?
Oh, please, God, let it be more
.

Her father’s voice rose on the air, leading her deeper into the wood
. Father! Wait!
she called. He gave no sign that he heard her, never faltering in his song. She pushed through a thicket of thorn bushes, the thorns catching at the wool of her gown, scratching her arms, her face. She caught a flash of white out of the corner of her eye, and suddenly she was through the thicket, stumbling into a glade wide enough that some light filtered through the trees in the center. There stood a hart, blood staining its white coat, dripping from something large caught on an antler. A low hum replaced her father’s song. It seemed to come from the hart, beginning softly, gradually increasing in volume. Joan took a step toward it, then froze as an overwhelming sense of danger made her glance over her shoulder. Her heart pounded in her chest
. Where was her father?
She opened her mouth to call to him, but no sound came forth. The humming grew louder, louder. She took a few more steps toward the hart, trying to ignore the sense of something reaching out to her from behind. The mass on the antler seemed to move, as if pulsing in rhythm with the humming. A few more steps and she saw that it was a swarm of flies. The hart sensed her, turning to look at her. The flies rose up as the antler moved, allowing Joan to see what it was on which they fed. Her stomach turned. It was her father’s head, horribly eaten. Joan screamed
. What is it, sweet Joan?
He was so close she felt his breath on the back of her neck. She screamed again—